Confessions Of A Hoarder Poem by C Richard Miles

I have a reputation for being a bit of a hoarder
And, as for chucking things away, it seems to get much harder
As years go by, for as things rest on dusty shelves, so peaceful
I never know, one distant day, if they will come in useful.
My desktop groans with teetering piles of forms and sheets and paper
That look as though they all arrived like rats led by Pied Piper.
And as I, dithering, vacillate to clear them in a hurry
To justify my cautiousness, I’ll tell my family’s story:

Great granddad was a builder in sheep-market Skipton town
His hands raised Poet’s Corner in solid, Yorkshire stone
Those terraced streets named after Milton, Byron, Cowper, Duckett
But though he had ten children, my great-grandfather Daggett
Was a bit too fond on Fridays of that dreadful demon drink
So he spent most of his wages then came home rolling drunk
Leaving poor great-granny Daggett to sweat and scrimp and save
Every precious little morsel to let her ill-fed children thrive.

So as all the little Daggetts, weaned on scraps and dregs and crusts
Became older, to resist the booze, they all turned Methodists
And signed the pledge as Rechabites opposed to beer and wine
As many did in long-past days before the wars were won.
They each became accustomed to save, make do and mend
And this would serve them well when rationing would demand
In fifties tough austerity to stand, when other folks might fail
And never needed handouts or to join soup kitchen’s file.

My ancestors used much resource to live on meagre fare
And I remember Grandma Miles who kept with zeal like fire
The teabags that were delivered along with meals-on-wheels
Three times a week. She’d hook them out, and dry them with her wiles
To save them for repeated use, like TV’s Ernie Wise
Who was rebuked by Morecambe’s wit for careful, thrifty ways.
Her “waste not, want not” mantra may be forgotten, but
When bread and jam were served for tea, we’d finish every bit.

Another fine example of thrift remembered well
Was demonstrated years ago, as you remember, if you will
In nineteen-ninety nine when we experienced that dark eclipse
Though, since the previous one occurred, seventy-two years had elapsed
Into the loft up ladders shinned my ever cautious saver dad
To resurrect the smoked-blue glass that rested there as though ’twere dead
To view the sun as rays were dimmed for he had kept them wrapped
Anticipating further use where time could not corrupt.

And so as thriftiness goes down each generation’s line
I have inherited the trait which silent ne’er has lain
And hoard such piles of useless stuff which cupboards overflow
In hope that they, one unknown day, will loose their wings and fly
Off from the shelf to be of use for what I want them for.
But I suppose, as you have guessed that after all, I fear
That they’ll remain unused, unwanted junk that festers, rots and palls
In overwhelming quantities of pretty pointless piles.

But one fine day, I’ll have my way when you’ve run out of stuff
And have to beg and borrow from this member of the staff
And then this canny Yorkshireman will smile a mild rebuke
To answer cruel critics and adeptly answer back.
“I’m careful, I’m not being mean as that proverbial Scot
Devoid of generosity as mentioned in your skit.”
And I will find triumphantly those little long-kept things
To which you’ll utter gratefully a grudging, heartfelt “Thanks! ”